The Dwarf Kingdoms (Book 5)

by A. Giannetti

  A SURPRISE ATTACK

  “It was all I could do to persuade my uncle to pay for even this abbreviated, rude passageway,” said Ascilius ruefully to Elerian over his right shoulder as they ran down the roughly hewn tunnel. “He is judged uncommonly tight with his gold even by Dwarf standards.”

  “There is no need to apologize,” Elerian replied, his gray eyes gleaming with laughter as he recalled Eonis’s attempts to secure the gold coin that had appeared in his sitting room. “I have already witnessed firsthand his frugal tendencies.”

  “I thought as much,” said Ascilius, “Perhaps you can tell me about it tonight over a round of beer,” he suggested.

  “Willingly,” replied Elerian. “I look forward to telling a pleasant tale under the stars. I have had quite enough of cold stone and darkness.”

  Just then, they came to the end of the tunnel, and they both fell silent. Ascilius removed the lock spell on the door and carefully drew back the two lock pins that were meant to secure the passageway if the spell was somehow broken. After extinguishing his mage light, he slowly swung the door swung inward a few inches. Rays of dim light immediately flooded the tunnel. Looking through the narrow crack that Ascilius had opened up, Elerian saw a little hollow about six feet deep that was screened by a wall of rock on all sides. The depression was still cloaked in shadow, for the sun had just begun to rise over the crest of the ridge on Elerian’s right.

  Reaching over Ascilius’s broad shoulder with his right arm, Elerian cast an illusion spell. A golden orb of light, visible only to his magical third eye, sprang from the fingers of his right hand, blossoming and spreading into a faint golden haze that spread over the hollow like a domed roof. A thin thread of gold tethered the haze to Elerian’s right hand, feeding the spell the power it needed to maintain itself.

  “It is done,” whispered Elerian into Ascilius’s right ear.

  One at a time, they slipped past the door and walked cautiously over to the left side of the hollow. Elerian was just tall enough to look over the rim of the stony wall in front of him, but Ascilius was forced to draw himself up with his powerful hands and arms in order to see over the edge. Only his eyes, dark and fierce beneath their bushy brows, and the top of his head showed over the lip of the barrier.

  “It must be a constant difficulty to be so short,” Elerian could not help remarking to his companion in a soft whisper, his gray eyes exhibiting a familiar gleam.

  “My height, like that of all Dwarves, is ideal,” remarked Ascilius sharply without turning his head. “If you would like to experience it yourself, I would be more than happy to rid you of your excess inches with a few well placed blows of my hammer on the top of your head.”

  Elerian sighed and shook his head. “The fighting has not even begun and already your bloodthirsty, Dwarfish nature has come to the forefront, threatening violence even to someone as peaceable as myself.”

  “I think irritating would describe you better,” replied Ascilius without turning his head, his eyes remaining fixed on the deceptively peaceful scene beneath him.

  All was quiet on the summit of the dike. The mutare stationed there looked bored, slouching at their posts and idly scratching at the skin beneath their thick fur with taloned fingers. Mordi armed with whips prowled restlessly among them, black hoods already pulled over their heads to protect their faces and eyes from the rising sun. The encampment pitched near the foot of the dike was quiet too, for the Goblins had already taken refuge from the waxing sun by entering their tents. Beneath the spreading limbs of the trees that surrounded the encampment, countless mutare dozed in the shade, huddled like animals on the leaf-covered ground. Some of the fierceness faded from Ascilius’s eyes as he took in the size of the Goblin camp which seemed so much greater from this short distance than it had from the upper slopes of Celsus.

  “Elerian, I am sending everyone back, for we cannot triumph over the host before us,” he said quietly. “Once the door to the tunnel is closed, I want you to climb the ridge behind us. Return to Tarsius and Anthea while you still can.”

  “And what will you do?” asked Elerian.

  “I will attack the sentries on the dike to distract them while you escape,” replied Ascilius, a note of hopelessness in his deep voice. “I have no desire to return to the city to witness its fall to the Goblins.”

  “Ascilius,” Elerian asked gently, “have I ever listened to you before?”

  “Not that I recall,” replied Ascilius somewhat peevishly as he called to mind some of the history that he and Elerian shared.

  “Why, then, do you think that I would listen to you now?” asked Elerian curiously.

  “Because I am being sensible,” replied Ascilius, an edge of anger appearing in his voice as he dropped back to the ground.

  “You are being indecisive, and it does not suit you at all,” said Elerian firmly. Ignoring Ascilius, he opened his third eye again. Using his magical sight to guide him, he extended his illusion to cover the bare, stony slope before him, ending it at the margin of the dike. The golden cloak of light was now barely visible to his mage sight, made pale by the light of the sun which was now rising hot and bright behind the ridge at his back.

  “I have extended my illusion to the edge of the earthworks,” said Elerian quietly to Ascilius. “If any of the sentries look up at the slope before us while we are on it, they will see only empty ground, but they will still be able to smell and hear us. Fortunately, the wind is out of the west and will blow our scent up the slope, but everyone must take great care not to make the least noise during their descent down the ridge.”

  “You are not daunted at all then by the odds that we face,” said Ascilius quietly as he searched his companion’s cool gray eyes for any sign of fear or indecision.

  “We have the sun at our backs, weapons without peer in our hands, and doughty warriors to fight with us,” replied Elerian serenely. “With all these advantages what difference does it make how many enemies we face?”

  “I know that your words are calculated to comfort me Elerian,” replied Ascilius grimly, “but you must know in your heart that we will not live to see the sunset if we descend this slope.”

  “Then let us make the most of the day before we depart,” replied Elerian, drawing bright Acris from his sheath with a soft whisper of steel on leather.

  “You are a fool, as I have told you many times before,” said Ascilius ruefully, “but I cannot bear to think that my courage failed while yours remained steadfast.” His momentary indecision and despair forgotten, Ascilius turned away from Elerian and walked briskly to the tunnel entrance where Falco was waiting patiently behind the door, ready to act as Ascilius’s second in command.

  “Falco, pass the word down the line that the slope below us is now masked by an illusion spell,” said Ascilius softly in his deep voice. “The charm will hide us from the sentries on the dike, but a silent approach is of the outmost importance. The last Dwarf to leave the passageway must close the door behind him, for there will be no retreat if we fail to capture the dike.”

  “I will inform everyone,” replied Falco, his eyes and voice steady and unafraid.

  “Perhaps Elerian is right,” thought Ascilius as he turned away. “With warriors like Falco at our backs, we may yet triumph today.”

  With all his preparations made and the fire renewed in his dark eyes, Ascilius climbed out of the little hollow, Elerian following silently after him. Ascilius knew that Elerian's spell protected him, but lacking the mage sight which would have allowed him to see the illusion, he still found it difficult to leave the scanty cover of the hollow and to walk slowly and carefully down the ridge in full view of the sentries on the dike below. At any moment, he expected an alarm to be raised, but all remained quiet. Slightly behind him, Elerian stepped confidently down the slope, for with his third eye, he could see the golden haze of the illusion spell that covered the slope around him. Adding to his confidence was the rising sun which was now well above the ridge top behind him
and glaringly bright.

  “Ascilius has chosen the ideal moment for his attack,” thought Elerian to himself as he observed the sentries on the dike shading their eyes with a hand whenever they looked to the east. Glancing back over his left shoulder at the Dwarves creeping in single file down the slope behind him, Elerian briefly locked eyes with Falco who was closest to him. His dark eyes were assured and fearless, but the faces of the Dwarves behind him were set and grim, as if they expected to be discovered at any moment.

  “This will be a test of their faith in their captain, for they cannot see the spell which conceals them,” thought Elerian to himself as he returned his gaze to the slope before him.

  Despite the general apprehension of the Dwarves, all went smoothly until Ascilius reached the edge of the dike and the farthest margin of the illusion charm. At that moment Elerian suddenly heard a loud clatter as a stone disturbed by one of the Dwarves’ boots rattled down the slope behind him. Alerted by the sound, the mutare closest to Ascilius turned a hairy, fierce face toward the Dwarf just as he stepped beyond the edge of Elerian’s illusion spell. Startled and confused by Ascilius’s sudden appearance, the changeling snarled, exposing yellowed fangs. Reverting back to his savage instincts, the mutare dropped his shield and sword before leaping toward Ascilius with furred, taloned fingers extend to tear out his throat. Raising the shield on his left arm, Ascilius stopped and braced himself. A harsh rasping sound filled the air as the changeling’s black claws scraped across unyielding steel. With a thrust of his short, immensely powerful body, Ascilius thrust the heavy changeling back and off his feet. With a fierce shout, he deftly swung the hammer in his right hand, striking the mutare on the crown of his helmeted head. Emitting a bright flash of silver white light, Fulmen crushed bone and steel as if they were no more than soft clay. As the changeling died, Ascilius felt the red heat of battle flow through him, overwhelming every emotion but the need to slay his enemies.

  “Death to the Dark King,” he roared as he leaped among the mutare who rushed up to attack him. Striking right and left with hammer and shield, he burst among them like a thunderclap, felling some in their tracks and sending others flying through the air, their hairy bodies crushed and broken. Like a spark in dry tinder, Ascilius’s battle cry ignited the battle lust of the Dwarves behind him. With a great, fierce shout, they rushed past Elerian who had stopped at the margin of the dike. A great clangor of steel on steel rose up as the Dwarves clashed with the mutare who were trying to surround Ascilius. Forming a shield wall around their captain, the Dwarves thrust hammers and axes into their belts before stabbing at the enemy with their short swords and long knives through gaps between the shields. Like an immensely powerful battering ram, the Dwarves, with Ascilius and Falco in the front line, slowly but irresistibly pushed the mutare back, trampling the changelings who fell before them beneath their heavy boots.

  When the last Dwarf rushed by him and he was sure the door in the hollow was closed and concealed once more, Elerian ended his illusion spell. On the dike, he heard the Mordi overseers who had retreated behind the mutare desperately sound their horns, calling for help. The sharp snap and crack of their long leather whips filled the air as they plied them savagely across the broad backs of their hairy allies, urging them to push back the Dwarves who were gaining possession of the summit of the dike one hard fought foot at a time.

  “Time to do my part,” thought Elerian to himself as he ran lightly onto the dike. In the dark camp on his right, Goblins were pouring out of the black tents, and the harsh braying of horns filled the air, rousing the mutare from their resting places in the forest. The changelings howled savagely when they saw the Dwarves on the dike. Yellow eyes shining with the urge to slay and rend, they surged out from under the trees, many of them leaving their weapons and shields behind in their haste to join the battle. They raced up the side of the earthwork in a disorderly pack, some running on two legs and others bounding on all fours. As they emerged into the sunlight, they were a sight to make the blood run cold: huge and shaggy, clawed and fanged, their savagery surpassing that of any natural creature. Behind them, the Mordi gathered together at the base of the dike, but made no movement to ascend and join in the fighting, preferring, as usual, to let their changeling allies bear the brunt of the fighting. Alone now, near the center point of the dike, Elerian surveyed the approaching horde with a frown.

  “Some of the Dwarves should have remained with me to guard my back,” he thought to himself, for in his eagerness to slay his enemies, even Ascilius appeared to have forgotten all about his companion and the important role assigned to him. Briefly, Elerian considered calling his invisibility ring to his hand, but quickly discarded the idea. Invisible or not, the mutare would smell him out. Shrugging his shoulders, indifferent to the ferocious horde rushing toward him, he turned his back on the approaching changelings and walked lightly to the edge of the dike, pausing behind the tall, outward leaning wooden palisade which guarded its lip. Below him, at the foot of the earthworks, was a trench about twenty feet wide and fifteen feet deep, the bottom of it thickly covered with thin, sharpened stakes, points glistening from a thick, viscous black paste that had been smeared over them.

  “Poisoned,” thought Elerian to himself. “Nothing living that falls into that trench will survive for long.”

  Setting aside his shield, he began to clear away the wooden palisade before him with two-handed strokes of his sword, Acris slicing through the thick timbers as if they were made of butter. The threads of argentum inlaid in the sword’s sides gleamed brightly with each stroke, but Elerian barely felt the drain on his power.

  “It is much easier to slay a timber than a Troll,” he thought dryly to himself as the severed, outward leaning stakes before him fell into the trench one by one. From the towers far up the slopes of Celsus, Elerian heard the powerful, mellow tones of Dwarf horns resonate through the air. The sentries stationed on the mountainside had seen the palisade fall and were signaling to Durio to begin the attack.

  “I wonder if he will arrive in time?” Elerian wondered as he stoically continued to sheer away the palisade.

  He had opened a gap about thirty feet wide in the barrier of stakes when a squat, black haired mutare, running on all fours far ahead of its fellows, suddenly hurled itself at him from behind before he became aware of it. As the changeling seized his shoulders with its powerful, clawed hands, Elerian felt its hot breath on his neck as he was borne to the ground by the great weight of the creature. He heard the changeling’s fangs grate on the chain mail protecting his neck and felt a sudden painful compression from its viselike jaws. The savage wrench which followed would have broken a man’s neck, but Elerian’s lean muscles, hardened by years in the Goblins’ mines, stiffened and held firm, resisting the mutare’s effort to slay him.

  Letting go of Acris, Elerian swiftly forced his right hand beneath him, his groping fingers swiftly finding the cold, ridged hilt of Rasor. Dragging the knife free, he raised his arm, blindly stabbing at the creature perched on his back, but long yellow teeth closed on the mail covering his forearm with crushing force, arresting the stroke. With a supple, powerful twist of his body, Elerian broke free of the mutare’s paws, twisting to his right onto his back. His left hand darted up, his long, strong fingers fastening themselves around the changeling’s hairy, corded throat. The mutare's yellow eyes glared fiercely down at him as they strained powerfully against each other, the changeling’s jaws continuing to grind at his wrist. Then, Elerian’s thumb found the creature’s windpipe. Its air cut off by his steely fingers, the mutare gagged, releasing Elerian’s right arm. Straight away, he slid the bright, bitter blade in his right hand through the mutare’s leather armor, between its ribs, and into its heart. The changeling slumped against Elerian’s left arm, its thin black lips still drawn back into a snarl as the light died from its eyes.

  Throwing the mutare’s heavy body to his left, Elerian sprang to his feet, unhurt except for a sore right wrist. He saw instantly
that a goodly number of mutare were now well up the slope in front of him, all of them intent on spilling his blood. Snatching up Acris and his shield, Elerian calmly waited for the hairy tide to engulf him, determined to defend the gap he had created in the palisade for as long as possible. Moments later, a loud clash of steel on steel rang through the air as he deflected the spiked head of an iron mace wielded by a great bearlike creature. With a deft, sure hand, Elerian momentarily buried his sword’s tip in the mutare’s throat. As the creature fell dead at his feet, he avoided reaching claws and snapping fangs with spare, supple moves, Acris flickering in and out like lightning, until a half circle of shaggy bodies lay on the ground around him, and the warm smell of spilled blood blended with the reek of the mutare’s hairy, unwashed bodies to form an almost palpable stench in the air.

  “The fetor of these creatures is liable to slay me even if their claws do not,” thought Elerian wryly to himself as he swept off the head of a squat creature with black flaring nostrils and fangs that protruded well past its thin, lower lip.

  Far down the dike, with no more enemies before him, Ascilius finally thought to look back to see how Elerian was faring. When he saw his companion alone, surrounded on three sides by a horde of mutare, he cursed loudly before rushing back through the ranks of his small company, shouting at the top of his voice, “Defend the gap in the palisade!”

  The twin braids of his beard flying back over his shoulders, Ascilius reached the outer circle of mutare just as Elerian was forced back to the very brink of the dike by the relentless horde of changelings surrounding him. Like a tempest, Ascilius burst upon them, striking right and left with Fulmen so quickly that it seemed a lightning storm had descended on the summit of the dike. Dismayed by his ferocious attack, cowed by the roar of his great voice, the changelings fell back, allowing the Dwarves who had followed Ascilius to form a shield wall in front of the gap Elerian had opened in the palisade. Behind the shield wall, breathing hard from his tremendous exertions, battered and bloodied from the battle, Ascilius stood by Elerian’s left side, his dark eyes flashing fiercely.